


Nothing Left to Say

by EilidhRose



Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Dadza, Hurt No Comfort, L'Manburg blows up yet again, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Alternating, Wilbur Soot is sad, based off of Nothing Left To Say by Imagine Dragons, i wrote this in a frenzy at 12 am, im very bad at tagging lol, wilbur fucking dies, will be updated soon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-25
Updated: 2020-11-25
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:29:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27704156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EilidhRose/pseuds/EilidhRose
Summary: 'On days like these, Wilbur likes to think of what could have been. Back before he didn't live in this blur, back when he could remember the smaller details in his life, and not just fleeting moments; flowing away like a dandelion at the death of summer.'Wilbur Soot briefly thinks upon the events that have lead to this moment.
Relationships: Wilbur Soot & Phil Watson
Kudos: 14





	Nothing Left to Say

**Author's Note:**

> This is literally my first work and I wrote this in a frenzy so I'm gonna throw it out here before I start thinking again.

On days like these, Wilbur likes to think of what could have been. Back before he didnt live in this blur, back when he could remember the smaller details in his life, and not just fleeting moments; flowing away like a dandelion at the death of summer.

Back then everything was

Fine. they had gained their independence. 

[Just not without loss.]

having wrestled it from the netherite clad grip of the ruler of this smp. They were free to develop their home. To begin to solidify their footing as a fledgling nation. That's why he had called the election, right? To prove their newfound strength in their bonds? Right?  
Right. 

But of course he had turned up. As soon as chaos darkened the air, as soon as unrest and anticipation latched their claws into the barely hushed conversations. As if he created it. Thrived in it. Perhaps Wilbur had known the truth about Schlatt. Once.

On that day anticipation had whispered in everyone's ears, and then, standing across the podium Schlatt had caught his eye. And smiled. Had he known this would be the outcome? Like a false Baphomet, only caring for the evil?  
If Wilbur had known this would be the outcome he would have screamed. Punched Schlatt. Taken Tommys stolen sword and killed the business man where he stood. But he hadn't. And after Schlatt’s coalition victory, after they had fled to a ravine deep in the earth, Wilbur would never curse his inaction more. In those days, it had seemed like Schlatt had won again. And he was once again falling behind.

Standing now in this stale room he could almost laugh, at the knowledge that he had once been a symbol of strength to his country. An eagle stretching his wings around the younger of their rebellion. He had never worn armor, preferring to talk over his conflicts before they turned sour. He had diligently played the wise leader then, not only because of his age, but because of his status in this new land. His age had never made him wise. He had forgotten what gave him that wisdom. But in the face of his shortcomings, back then he had pushed through, pushed on. Ever the doomed optimist. Back then he had talked through his conflicts with the vigour of a man living on borrowed time.

But now. In this cramped room. Hidden under the blackstone throne, with the song  
[his song]  
scratched desperately into the walls. Now he had nothing left to say. His words now stolen and caged away, a small yellow bird in a stone cage, singing despairingly to his ignorance.  
Wilbur Soot had given up on his words. The words he had used to found a nation, now thrown aside in favour of the explosive tools to tear it down. 

Somewhere, deep inside him, that little bird is screaming. Screaming at him, or what he once was, begging him to think it over. To reconsider. But the screams of the little bird are ignored, as the cage closes in ever faster.  
He's come too far now, he reasons somewhere in the haze in his mind. It's far too late to turn back. Even if he's wrong. Even if he's the villain in their history.  
And so Wilbur Soot pushes on. And on. 

Taking step after tentative step to the button embedded in the wall. Almost testing his luck to see if the room has been trapped to prevent him from doing this. But he makes it to the button unharmed and quietly mutters a final fuck you to the country that was no longer his 

[to the little brother he barely knows anymore]

But Wilbur Soot isn't a lucky man. 

“What are you doing?” - the voice. The voice that had once given him sparring tips, had patiently taught him to fold paper lanterns.

“Phil?”

He turns around to face the father he once admired. 

\------------

Phil loves all of his sons dearly. He may be a busy man, but he has always been there as much as possible. Back then, Wilbur had never been the most forthcoming in his fears, in his troubles, preferring to bottle them up inside until the mere thought of existing was too cold.

And now here he stands, face to face with his son, the son whose shouting, crazed in his determination that he's alone, that this is the only way. That he can't be interrupted anymore and that he wont stop now.

But Phil is still determined, he still tries. And as much as he can he tries to find a semblance of the man he once knew his son as.

\-----------------

Giving up is easy. Both men know it's easy, this is where their similarities start, both are determined to see a point through. But in this case, when Phil looks at his son, looking for that determination hes familiar with all he sees is a broken and angry man. A man who has been backed into a corner and has truly nothing left.

And Phil steels his heart, knowing there's only one return from this.

\------------

In his eyes there truly is nothing left. Not for him. no fancy words or imagined stories could have prepared him for this, for a fall such as this. Wilbur Soot is tired. Is cold. And just wants to feel some semblance of warmth again.

He speaks of the traitor. of Eret. A man he believed he could truly trust. The very man who had constructed the tall blackstone walls.

[Eret was on their side now though? He had fought with them, his tower providing the scene for their decisive battle with a nightmare]

“He had a saying you know, Phil.” Phil smiles slightly, not quite understanding. He knows of Eret, of his betrayal. Phil understands that that single action may have been the beginning of the fall. And the winter that will follow has never been so cold.

Wilbur laughs, a hollow bitter sound that barely has the resolve to echo around the cramped room. 

“It was never meant to be”

The click of the button is more definite in its echo.

Their small world is overtaken by noise. Wilbur covers his ears and sinks to his knees, not laughing or crying but living in this moment. Where nothing truly exists and he knows that he doesn't have to resurface yet. He can’t even hear his scream over the roar of the dynamite. The moment that has finally arrived, he hasn't put it off any longer. So why now that he pushes through, now he has resurfaced can he feel the cold crushing closer into his heart? Why can’t he feel anything?

“Oh my god.” - Phil has shielded him, using his wings to stop him from being crushed by rubble. He had once used those wings to comfort him, pulling him close in the rare times Wilbur had shared his troubles.

“Will, it's all gone!” Wilbur gasps like a man who has been denied oxygen all his life, he's still unsure if it's in shock or if in resolution.

“My l’Manburg Phil! If I can't have this-” He stretches his arms out. A crazed conductor in a ruined symphony. “No one can!”

And from the rubble below him he can almost make them out. The kids he had done this all for. The cage breaks. And he fights down the urge to scream his sorrow.

“Phil.” his sword - a recent addition to his inventory - clatters to the floor, had Wilbur even used it to fight? “Kill me Phil! Kill me!” he throws it at Phil’s feet with the despair still clouding his eyes. 

The birdcage is broken, and the yellow bird no longer remembers how to fly.

\-------

“You're my son!”

Looking now at his son - at the yellow bird - he can’t. No matter what, he had promised to be there for him, as much as his son would physically allow. He had promised and now 

Now he has to break it. Now he has to think of his other sons. Maybe he can stop the corruption at its source.

“After everything you do…” 

He can't bring himself to finish that sentence. And he pushes the blade forwards, watching as the icy teal stains a deep red.


End file.
